Rist stood motionless, seeing the wheel respond to the hands, the jib hardening enough to swing the hull very slightly. Adrift, and at any second the fuses would blow.
Then he ran aft, his leg over the rail even as the first muffled explosion spurted sparks through the forehatch.
Voices were yelling at him to jump; he thought he had heard Galbraith too, but all he could think of was the figure strapped to the schooner's wheel. And how strong his Welsh accent had sounded, in the face of death itself.
Someone thrust a bottle into his hands. It was rum, like fire in his throat. He raised the bottle again and murmured, "All bets down, my friend!"
Then the world exploded.
"Hold your fire!" Adam had to shout twice to gain Varlo's attention. The guns had fired three broadsides, the havoc on the other frigate's deck easy to see despite the smoke and confusion. Perhaps their forecastle party had been cut down in the first double-shotted onslaught, when Unrivalled had come about to show her true intention. The ship was swinging now, moored only by her forward cable, the stream anchor aft having been cut to escape the second broadside. Purpose or panic, it mattered little now, but the blazing schooner Galbraith and his two boats had boarded had been enough for the crowded shipping which had been relying on the warships' moored broadsides.
The fireship had become entangled with another schooner and both were now drifting like one huge torch.
Even as he watched, Adam saw another, smaller vessel catch fire, the flames leaping up the sun-dried rigging and turning the sails into scattered ashes. He heard warning shouts from the maintop and saw two oared galleys sweeping past the other ships, turning as one towards Unrivalled and increasing speed to the urgent beat of a drum.
Such fanatical daring should have achieved a better settlement. But the brig Magpie was ready, and raked the leading galley with canister and grape, in an instant changing it to a shattered wreck. The second paid no heed and met with more grape from Unrivalleds larboard carronades.
The long sweeps splintered like boxwood as the galley lurched and shuddered alongside. In the next instant figures were swarming up and over the gangway, only to be confronted by the boarding nets, probably something they had never before encountered.
Men snatched up cutlasses and axes, while others dragged the deadly boarding-pikes from the racks and impaled the screaming, crazed attackers before they had even cut through the nets.
And yet there were a few who managed to hack their way past the defences. One, a bearded giant, marked out from the others by a scarlet robe, reached the quarterdeck ladder, his eyes fixed on the man he recognised as captain.
Adam had his sword balanced in his hand, loosely, some of the others might have thought. As if he no longer cared…
He saw the great blade swing down, heard someone, Napier perhaps, yell out a warning. Like being someone else, able to measure the weight and force of the blow. He felt it lance through his arm, heard the scream of steel as the two blades crossed, the heavier blade sliding down to lock against the hilt of his sword. He could even smell his attacker, feel the overwhelming hate which excluded everything else.
He stepped aside, gasping as pain seared his wounded side, but keeping his balance as the giant lunged forward.
It was the madness. The moment when risk and caution meant nothing. If anything, he felt light-headed, and knew only that he wanted to kill this man.
A shadow sliced across the smoky, sunshine and he saw the giant reel aside, eyes still blazing as he pitched down the ladder.
The hard man, Campbell, wielding a cutlass with both hands like a claymore, had almost severed his head from his body.
Campbell turned now, showing his mutilated back, the evidence of a dozen or more floggings, with something like a gladiator's triumph.
Adam raised the old sword to him.
"Thank you!"
Campbell, streaked with blood, his own or that of his victims, gave a mock bow.
"Your servant, Cap'n!"
And then, all at once, impossible though it was, it was over. Like a sudden deafness left when the last broadsides have exploded.
Adam grasped the quarterdeck rail and stared along his command. The dead lay where they had dropped, as if they had fallen asleep. Others reached out as grim-faced seamen and marines hurried around and over them: the wretched wounded. A captain's legacy, so that he should not forget.
Midshipman Deighton shouted, "From Flag, sir! Discontinue the action!"
Adam tried to sheathe his sword, but it was sticky with blood. The signal made no sense. Someone had removed the sword and was wiping it clean with a piece of rag.
He looked at Napier and wanted to smile, but his lips would not move. "You did well, David. Your mother…" He made another attempt. "I am proud of you!"
Small but stark pictures stood out. Like those first moments, the waiting. The aftermath was even worse.
Bellairs, sitting on a water barricoe, his face in his hands, the fine sword his parents had given him to mark his commission as lieutenant discarded at his feet, its blade also stained with blood. And now Yovell, coming from below for the first time, from the orlop where he had been helping the surgeon with the wounded and the dying. Staring around, a length of soiled bandage trailing from one pocket. A man wrestling with his beliefs.
And the boats returning alongside, Rist hurrying to the quarterdeck, peering at the planking, pock-marked with musket balls from the enemy's sharpshooters, and at the dark bloodstains where men had stood together and had died. Lastly he had looked at Cristie, the old sailing-master, and remarked almost casually, "You got through it, then?"
And Cristie, looking and feeling his age, who had never quit this deck throughout the attack, had smiled, perhaps because he knew what Rist had expected, and replied, "Got through what, Mr Rist?"
Adam walked to the hammock nettings, his hand feeling the torn canvas where musket balls had cut through the tightly-packed bedding. Some had been meant for him.
The bombardment was over. Through the pall of drifting smoke he could see the freshly set sails: Lord Exmouth's fleet on the move again. Withdrawing. The casualties would be terrible, but not a ship had been lost. On the shore there were fires raging, and the guns were silent. Many must have been buried with their crews when the old fortifications had crumbled under Exmouth's barrage.
He recalled his own relief when he had seen Galbraith being helped aboard, in pain, but quietly determined, like a man who had discovered something in himself which he had not suspected.
And the moment when Galbraith, his wounded shoulders covered by a seaman's jacket, had paused by Varlo, at the place where he had controlled every gun and every man of the full broadside.
Galbraith had said, "You did well."
Varlo had half-smiled, and retorted, "Go to hell!"
And now they were leaving this place. Many vessels had been destroyed or left abandoned. The enemy barque had not been one of them. They would meet again. He gripped the nettings until the pain in his side reawakened. And tomorrow Lord Exmouth would demand that all his previous terms be met. The Dey would have no choice.
He turned away from the smoke and the fires.
"Turn the hands to, Mr Bellairs! We will prepare to get under way.
He stared along the ship yet again. The first in, the last to leave. And they had done it.
He looked at the dead where some had been dragged from the places they had lain to clear the guns' recoil. One was a marine officer, his face covered with a bloodied cloth. Lieutenant Cochrane. Unrivalled was his first ship.
"Move yourselves!" He walked to the rail again. A captain must never show weakness. His authority was his armour. It was all he had.
Bellairs called, "Shall we put them over, sir?"
Adam stared down at him. So simply asked. Was that all it took?
He said, "No. We'll bury them when we clear the land." He saw Yovell watching him. "Perhaps you could read a suitable prayer, Mr Yovell?"